I dressed and decided, foolishly, that a little fresh air would fix me up.  I know what you're thinking, "fresh air -- in November?"  Like I say, my body (mind included) was reacting strangely to the jetliner of pollution.  But if not for that morning's pain, I never would have discovered the deepest secret of Prague.  The thing which even Franz Kafka, in all his glorious paranoia, had never guessed.  
  
If you will indulge a literary reminiscence, it was Kafka who wrote that brilliant, and insightful article: "Investigations of a Dog".  As Kafka's canine narrator so eloquently points out, dogs have a certain social order and behaviour, which humans do not share.  What Kafka did not guess at, is how deep and pervasive this society is;  if he did know it, then he concealed the astonishing truth.  And it was on that November morning, that like Alice, I, M. Tundra, esq. and imbiber of scotch, was introduced to the real facts. 
  
I'd managed to wander to the Old Town; wisps of snow were gathering in the gutters, and chasing along like frisky puppies.  The puppies.  Oh, if only I'd known!  But I digress.  The wind was picking up a little bit, and if good to disperse Prague's pollution, it bit like a vorpal rabbit.  I was feeling this chill, somewhere below the ice-pick planted at the base of my skull, when I noticed a little black dachshund, tied up outside a lekarna, his little tail neatly curled underneath his bum.  He was shivering like a son-of-a-bitch.  (He was, after all, a son of a bitch.)  I walked over, intending to pat the poor guy on the head. 
  
I've always had a soft spot for dachshunds. I was first introduced to this breed when I was a child. One of them had followed me home, and we became friends in the time it took to find his true masters.  (I say true masters now with heavy irony.)  Anyway, back then, these low-slung, long-bodied dogs were known to me simply as "wiener-dogs".  An unfair, but inevitable description of the breed; at the time, I had no idea that they have a long, and proud history as hunting dogs.  Perhaps, I used to think, it is for this reason that dachshunds manage to carry their tubular, and let's face it, somewhat ridiculous physiques, with dignity and poise. I know otherwise now. 
  
This little guy had lost all semblance of poise.  He was shaking, and his eyes looked a little bugged out, in sharp contrast to mine, which were sunken and bleary with the HANG. . .  well, you get the point.  He looked as pathetic as I felt. 
  
Prague, as you know, is populated by an inordinate number of dachshunds.  They abound, in a variety of tubular guises -- long- haired, short-haired, brown, rust, black.  The brown ones are the most ridiculous, and consequently, I was surprised to find that they are the most important.  But I give away too much. 
  
So just as I was leaning over to pat the little dog, carefully, because the breed is known to bite, I was shocked, nay, flabbergasted, to hear the dog say, "don't patronize me." 
 " 
What?" I blurted, not really believing that the dog had talked.  I felt, in some way, that it could be blamed on my brain's overloaded synapses.  For your information, I have hallucinated before while hung over.  It was a very strange hallucination, in which I was convinced a lava lamp was the ULTIMATE EVIL, and that as it heated up, it was MANIFESTING!  My friends did not take this revelation very well, and were downright worried when I stood up in the cafe where we were having breakfast, and screamed, "look, look, the CHICKEN OF DOOM!"  (I had actually seen a six-foot chicken.)  They restrained me while I tried to first unplug, and then smash the lava lamp.  Luckily, I was saved from psychiatric evaluation, when the "chicken of doom" returned and walked into the cafe.  It was just a guy in a chicken suit, and it took my friends several minutes to convince me of this.  (Actually, to this day, I am not so sure it wasn't the CHICKEN OF DOOM.)  So these were my thoughts, my reminiscences, as the dog looked at me intelligently. 
  
"I said, don't patronize me," the dog repeated. 
  
"Oh," I replied, slowly, "I didn't mean to." 
  
"I know.  But you are.  A pat on the head is going to do me no good at all.  It's damned cold out here, and I'm stuck here for a while." 
  
"Why?" 
  
The dog looked to either side of him, and whispered, "look.  Can you keep a secret?" 

"Sure," I lied. 
  
"Okay.  I'm on look-out here, for the next ten minutes." 
  
"Uh.  Why?" 

"Oh, I can't get into that," the dog said testily, "you wouldn't understand the politics." 
  
"Dog politics?" 
  
"The only politics there are.  Look," the dog said to me frankly (it was doubly odd to have dog speak frankly), "we know who you are, Mr. Tundra, and maybe we could let you into our secret.  No one would believe you anyway." 

 He had a point there. 
  
"So what's the secret?" I asked, eager to find out more.  My headache was even receding a little as the adrenaline began to flow.  
  
"The society," my little dachshund confident started, "is meeting tonight . . . it's a full moon you know.  Anyway, it's meeting, and maybe we could let you attend, in return for say . . . a favour." 
  
"A favour?" 
  
"Yes.  We need you to transport one of us out of the country.  To America.  We have information we need to get from our American cousins." 
  
"Aren't there any American dogs in Prague you could ask?" 
  
"Sure, but they're all Golden Retrievers and Irish Setters, what do you think they can remember?"  The little guy had a point.  They were not very clever breeds -- even in our limited human understanding of dog intelligence. 
  
"Okay," I said.  "I'll do it." 
  
"Fantastic," the dachshund actually seemed enthused, "there is a short-haired cousin of mine at this address.  Pick him up, and drive him out to the airport.  Here's your ticket."  And I kid you not, the dog pulled out a sheaf of papers from under his sleek black fur.  I was so astonished, I actually slapped my forehead. 
  
"You have a pocket there?" 
  
"Of course, all dogs do." 

"But if I get on the plane, how am I going to get to your meeting tonight?" 
  
"Don't get on the plane.  The meeting's address is below my cousin's, and Tundra . . ." 

"Yeah?" 
  
"You're a good man." 

I went to the first address, and true to the little dog's word, a long-bodied, brown dachshund was siting in a little travel cage at the front entrance.  He seemed like a normal dog, and didn't say a word, all the way to the airport, even while I checked him in.  But on the way conveyer-belt, I could swear that I saw him wink at me. 
  
It was late in the day by then, well, just after noon, and when I got back to town, I decided to pop into the pub for a few quick drinks.  It was, after all, a Saturday, and I had no engagements until the mysterious dog-meeting that night.  I was tempted to mention my morning's activities to the fellow next to me at the bar, but I had promised secrecy. 
  
So by the time the evening rolled around, I was in paroxysms of curiosity at what I would discover.  (I was also over my hangover, cured by the hair of the . . . well, the drinks I'd had that afternoon.) 
  
When I got to the address, I was shocked to find it was a hotel.  A grand, expensive hotel, and the doorman smiled at me when I entered.  "Down the stairs," he whispered to me, "and someone will show you the way." 
  
It seemed I was not the only human in the know.  
  
Down the stairs, a pretty young woman in a pretty tight mini-skirt took my coat; she hung it with a number of other coats, and I noticed on the other side a surfeit of collars and leashes.  She then said, "are you Mr. Tundra?"  I told her I was, and she nodded solemnly, opening a hidden door in the wall.  
  
The sound and smell issuing from that secret opening was almost overwhelming.  A cacophony of barking and howling drowned out every sense except that of my nose -- it captured the unmistakable scent of dog.  The young woman indicated that I should go in, and tremulously, I walked down a further set of stairs.  At the bottom was a large, opulent room, dimly lit.  The walls were decorated with paintings of all kinds of regal-looking dogs; they seemed possessed of an intelligence which surpassed my own.  

When the dogs became aware of my presence, a silence enveloped the room, and I was suddenly very aware of two dobermans and a German shepherd who surrounded me.  The only sound in the room came from low in their throats.  A little black dachshund started yapping at them, and they stopped growling, and sat back on their haunches.  I suddenly recognized the dachshund from this morning, as he said, "you're a bit early.  We've nearly finished.  Why don't you sit at the bar, and I'll join you presently." 

I thought it an excellent suggestion, and walked over to the little wet bar in the corner, and poured myself a (large) scotch.  The barking and howling continued, but watching it, it seemed vaguely reminiscent of some kind of parliament.  The little black dachshund sat next to a very important-looking brown, fat, dachshund, and I suddenly understood.  They were running things in Prague, not the humans. 
  
It was like in "Planet of the Apes," when Charleton Heston rides up the beach and sees the torso of the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the sand.  I was outraged.  How long had this canine conspiracy been going on?  I must tell someone, I thought, this is a travesty!  And then the party started. 
  
The meeting broke up with lots of dog-laughs, and dog-jokes, a bit of butt-smelling, and the assembled throng of man's best friend pulled out a few cases of liquor; a group of beagles pulled out instruments and formed an impromptu band.  The music was great, the booze flowed, and the dogs all started dancing, and singing along with the band.  
  
My little black dachshund friend sat on the stool next to me at the bar, and we had a philosophical conversation about existence, and dog hierarchy.  It seems that in Prague, at least, dachshunds occupy the upper strata of the government, brown at the top, rust coloured next, and black at the bottom; and a good thing too, according to my friend.  "Things are a mess right now, but we've only recently taken over from the German shepherds," he said. "They really balled things up under the Communists, I'll tell you."  At about two the party broke up, and once again, my dachshund friend swore me to secrecy.  The dogs who had been walking around on hind legs sighed, and returned to all fours. They all filed upstairs, and put on their leashes and collars.  At a signal from the head-dachshund, two human waiters started ejecting the "masters" from the bar next to the cloakroom, and soon, all the dogs were gone, leading their humans away by leash. 
  
And it might have been my imagination, but I do believe one of those German shepherds followed my weaving way home.  In fact, ever since that night, I've had the feeling that I'm being watched.  And this makes me pray, that dogs don't read this rag. 

 The End